


Crush

by stargayzing



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Getting Together, On Hiatus, Secret Identity, roommates to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargayzing/pseuds/stargayzing
Summary: Hurley sort of has a crush on the wanted criminal/vigilante the Raven. It's dorky and embarrassing and she's definitely not going to tell anyone about it - it's bad enough her roommate accidentally found out. But Sloane can keep a secret, right?[Note: On Indefinite Hiatus.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update: Hey readers! I'm sad to say this has been discontinued (for now at least) - y'all have been so patient and wonderful to me in the comments and I'm sorry, but my drafts for the final chapter were going nowhere and for mine and your sake I just need to formally put a lid on this... so I can write something else without feeling guilty. Thanks and, again, sorry!

_**Goldcliff** is a city best know for its towering buildings, the picturesque panoramic view from the edge and the Goldcliff Trust, a giganteum monument to the city's wealth and the heart of the financial district. But Goldcliff also has a darker side._

_In a city lauded for its beauty and splendor and only a few blocks away from the Trust itself you will find one of many "residential areas" overrun with poverty. In spitting distance of the fancy mansions and villas foreign billionaires love to build here are residential blocks with no or poor access to clean water and electricity. I ask you: Is this fair? This divide between rich and poor, the top 1% versus the rest of the town.  
_

_Many people agree with me when I say that no, no it is not. And while our police force and government remain corrupt, someone is finally doing something about it. A spectre is haunting Goldcliffe, the spectre of justice and_

Hurley frowns and scans that last paragraph again. That's... probably plagiarism. With a sigh, she hits the backspace button.

When the page is blank again, she rests her head on her palm and just watches the cursor blink. Her procrastination is interrupted by the sound of the apartment unlocking and Sloane calling out, "I'm home!"

"Did you buy Hotpockets?" Hurley calls, quickly shutting her laptop and getting up from her bed. She steps out of her room, firmly closing the door behind her.

"Did you do the dishes?" Sloane's reply is coming from their tiny kitchen, which means the question is entirely rhetorical.  
Hurley rubs the back of the neck sheepishly when she joins Sloane next to the sink and catches sight of the leaning tower of plates, cups and glasses. "Knew there was something I forgot..." 

Her roommate raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "In that case, I forgot to buy Hotpockets."

When she catches sight of the devastated look on Hurley's face she has to muffle laughter before turning away to finish unpacking the groceries.

Hurley waits until her stupid blush is gone to say: "Did you really not buy any? I swear I'm going to do the dishes in the next hour or so. A day at the most."

"Addict," Sloane mutters, but the reaches into the bag and pulls out a packet obligingly. "I got some Pop-Tarts too."

"You're an angel," Hurley says fervently, reaching for the box of delicious pizza-y goodness. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You pay 50% of the rent and make your mom's secret lasagna recipe twice a month," Sloane replies matter-of-factly. "It's entirely a business arrangement."

"That's cold," Hurley complains. She leans in to inspect the Pop-Tarts. Strawberry. Nice.

"Speaking of dinner," Sloane says, stowing a jug of apple juice in the fridge, "I'm going out tonight. Don't wait up."

"Fine." Hurley yawns. Then she catches sight of the clock. "Shit. It's 7 pm already?!"  
"The sweet sweet sound of a college student procrastinating before a deadline," Sloane remarks.

Hurley just grumbles in reply. She doesn't say _It's not for school_ because then Sloane might ask questions and she really doesn't want to have to admit she's writing a guest article for the local newspaper about Goldcliff's very own Superhero, because that might lead to some questions about why _she's_ the one writing it. At least with the anonymity of an online chat room there's no risk of her IRL friends ever finding out just how much time she spends fangirling about the Raven.

Not to mention being the founder of The Raven Zone, a newsportal for sightings of the vigilante.

"See you tomorrow," Sloane says, retreating into her bedroom with a bottle of water and an apple. Hurley hears the quiet click of the door locking behind her.

While she waits for the toaster to finish warming her Pop-Tarts, Hurley contemplates life, the universe, and the enigma that is Sloane.  
Sloane is, on the whole, a great roommate. She cleans up her own messes and helps with the general chores. She hasn't been late paying the rent money even  _once_ and is pretty chill when it comes to shared groceries.

The toaster pops and she grabs her snack and a plate and heads back into her bedroom.

The thing is, though, that Hurley doesn't know if Sloane is her friend. They get along pretty well and they've been living together for almost a year now but they don't really _know_ much about each other.

When Hurley isn't drowning in essays and homework - which isn't very often - she notices that Sloane really isn't around much. It sort of feels like she's working three jobs at once, all with odd hours and the occasional night shift, which would at least explain how she's so casual about grocery money.

Hurley bites into her Pop-Tart, ignoring the inevitable crumbs on her blanket.

She's not much better, she supposes, since Sloane has no idea about her hobby either. When she opens her laptop, the empty word document blinks accusingly at her. Shit.

Frowning, she tries to gather her thoughts. The thing about the Raven, really, is that she's super mysterious. She has an all-black outfit and a badass codename and mask and she could be _anyone_. (Well, not Hurley, because there's a significant height difference there.) They don't even really know why the Raven does what she does - although Hurley hopes it's some moral sense of justice - just that she appeared about a year ago, feathered mask already in place. She became sort-of-famous for robbing the Goldcliff Trust entirely without injuring a single employee and (anonymously) redistributing part of the wealth to low income families.

Thoughtfully, Hurley opens up her browser and does a quick Google Image search. A number of pictures pop up right away. Most are blurry and low quality, but there's a few decent press shots and Hurley's personal favorite: the selfie the Raven took on a mugger's new iPhone after she caught and restrained him. (That one went viral.)

Maybe she just needs to get inspired.

* * *

Eleven hours, three pop tarts, a dozen Hotpockets, a battle of wills with her printer, a quick nap and so much freaking cellotape later, Hurley has a decent rough draft saved to her computer and a huge new collage hanging over her desk. Pride of place is, of course, The Selfie (it deserves the capitalisation), but also various news articles, tweets and pictures of the Raven. There's even a reprint of the wanted poster the police issued a few months back.   
It looks pretty cool. Hurley's glad she spent her night on it instead of, you know, getting some sleep.  
... Not really. She feels pretty dead.

So when Sloane stops in front of her door on her way to the bathroom and knocks, she can only sort of groan in response.  
There's a short silence. "... Hurley? It's a Saturday. Why are you awake before noon?"  
"What time is it?" She grumbles.

"6 AM." Hurley groans again. She manfully pretends she can't hear Sloane snicker at her through the closed door. Asshole.  
Her roommate redeems herself almost immediately by offering, "I'll get you some coffee." 

Hurley ponders what's worse: feeling like a brain dead zombie or the inevitable caffeine crash in a few hours. Meh. That sounds like a problem for Future Hurley.

Sloane knocks on the door again a few minutes later. Hurley should really get up and answer that.  
She remains slumped over her desk face down.

After a moment of hesitation, she can hear Sloane press down on the handle and then she opens the door. She's carrying a tray with a giant mug and a sugar dispenser on it and narrows in on the desk she's slumped over immediately. "You look like you just fought a direwolf and lost. Badly."  
Hurley yawns. "Is that a Game of Thrones reference?"

"Maybe." Sloane sets the tea set down on the free space next to her elbow and then glances up. Hurley freezes, suddenly far more awake.  
"Huh," is all Sloane says, but when Hurley peeks at her she can see that Sloane is staring at the collage, both eyebrows raised.

"I can explain," Hurley says, and she's still tired enough it feels like her tongue is tripping on the words, "it's for... uh. A project? For school."

"I see," Sloane says, in an I'm-totally-judging-you-right-now tone of voice.

Hurley lets her forehead thud against the desk. "Stupid," she mumbles, "who can come up with a good excuse at 6 in the morning anyway?"

Sloane is still staring at the collage. "I like the heart stickers."

"I ran out of cellotape," she lies.

"Uhuh. So, the Raven, huh?"

"This is not a conversation I want to have while sleep deprived," Hurley says, taking a deep chug of her coffee. It's far too hot. She grimaces. "This is not a conversation I want to have at all."

Sloane smirks as she says, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you're a devout fan."

"Great." Hurley glares at the stupid collage. Why did she even make it in the first place? Oh. Right.

"Wait," she says. "Since you're in the know now anyway, mind proofreading something for me?"

"Sure."

Hurley spends the next minutes alternating between almost falling asleep and burning her mouth on coffee as Sloane reads her essay in silence. When she's done, she sets the laptop back onto the bed next to her and crossed her legs. "Well," she says, at length, "I don't know what you were going for, but that reads like a love letter."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hurley responds, but she can already feel a blush starting up. Dammit.  
Sloane looks _delighted_. Hurley foresees some serious teasing in the future. "Anything else?"

Sloane shrugs. "You might want to cut those two paragraphs where you ramble about how cool her outfit is. Also, there were a ton of spelling errors. Don't you have spellcheck on this?"

"I turned it off because all the red was hurting my eyes," Hurley admits.

"Amazing." Sloane gets up and stretches. "I'm going to take my morning shower. If you're staying awake, maybe give the dishes a shot."  
Hurley gives her an absent thumbs up, already engrossed in her laptop.

* * *

Probably to spite her, Sloane is incredibly cheerful for the rest of the day. Hurley's bitterness is only waylaid by the cups of coffee Sloane keeps bringing her. It's only prolonging the inevitable, but Hurley really doesn't want to deal with a caffeine crash. It's like a hangover minus all the fun the night before. All Hurley has to show for it is this stupid collage... and the article on the Raven she submitted anonymously around noon.

She drags herself out of bed at 6 AM the next day to find Sloane already in the kitchen, sitting on top of the kitchen counter and steadily demolishing a bowl of cornflakes.  
"Good morning," Sloane mumbles, and turns her face away to yawn.

Last night's date must have gone well, Hurley thinks, since there's a bruise that looks a lot like a hickey on the side of Sloane's neck. She looks like she's been up all night ( _hint hint_ ).

Well, it's not really any of her business. Hurley fills a bowl with cereal and absently reaches for the orange juice. When she looks up as she's pouring it, Sloane is shaking her head at her. "Disgusting," her roommate says, but it's mostly fond. Hurley does the adult thing and sticks her tongue out at her.

After breakfast, Hurley goes for a quick jog, then has a shower and returns to the kitchen for her traditional second breakfast. Sloane is still in the kitchen, which is unusual, but Hurley just nods in greeting and starts assembling her reward smoothie.  
She checks her phone as she's sipping and almost drops her glass. The Raven Zone is flooded with messages and comments and- oh my god. It's- It's another _selfie_.

Right there, uploaded on an anonymous twitter account, is a picture of the Raven, mask firmly in place but outfit adorned with some seriously expensive looking jewelry. Hurley can't believe this. Who- who stops for a selfie in the middle of a _jewel heist?_  
  
"You look like you're having a stroke," Sloane says, positively gleeful.  
"More like a gay crisis," Hurley responds absently, eyes still glued to her phone screen. Her roommate chokes on her drink and starts coughing.  
A quickly aborted Heimlich maneuver leaves both of them bright red and avoiding eye contact. It's awkward until Sloane laughs self-consciously. "What a great way to start a Monday."  
"You're probably being sarcastic," Hurley says, phone in hand and changing her background to the new selfie absently, "but this is probably the best start to my week I could have asked for."

She gets the impression Sloane is laughing at her, but she has no idea why.

* * *

The rest of her week, unfortunately, does not go so swimmingly. College kicks her ass in retribution for her doing absolutely zero (0) of the coursework or prep over the weekend. She spends all her free time buried in medical diagrams and memorizing entire textbooks. Sloane is busy too, and they barely see each other all week.

On a rare evening they're not overloaded with work and actually both present and in the same room together, Hurley finishes the last box of Hotpockets with a dramatic sigh and says to Sloane, "How ironic is it going to be if learning to save lives is gonna kill me?" 

"Pretty ironic," Sloane allows. She's cradling a cup of coffee and staring down into it like it's holding all the answers in the universe. She blinks herself out of the trance a second later, though, and adds: "You're training to become a paramedic, right?"

"Yeah." She eyes Sloane carefully. "You're not going to tell me I'm an idealistic moron and wasting my time?"

"I think it sounds useful." Sloane frowns. "Who are you quoting?"

Hurley hops onto the kitchen counter and kicks her feet idly. "My mom. She was rooting for me to be a homemaker, like her. That's why she taught me how to make her special lasagna - to quote her, it was so I could catch me a husband and boy she's really barking up the wrong tree there - and why she's always been vaguely disapproving of me doing... anything me, basically." She stares down at the floor moodily.

"That sounds rough, buddy," Sloane offers after a moment of silence.

" _God_ you're bad at that," Hurley says, but she's smiling now. "Comforting people is not your shtick, huh?"

"Excuse you. I'm very good at using a stick on people."

Hurley can't stop the grin widening on her face. "I see puns aren't your forte either."

"Actually I-"

"You can make a fart joke but just know: I intentionally set it up for you."

Sloane huffs a little, running a hand through her ponytail absently. "Where's the fun in that, then?"

Hurley laughs. At the beginning of their acquaintance, she had no idea what an awesome sense of humor was lurking behind that stoic face. She's glad she got the chance to get to know Sloane.

She waits until her blush is gone to get more serious and say: "Everyone has something they're good at, right? I just, I'd like it if mine was helping people. Making the world a better place, even just a little."

Sloane looks at her like she's never seen her before. Like Hurley is an entirely different species and she's the scientist lucky enough to have discovered her. Or like Hurley's a hamster that suddenly started quoting Shakespeare. Either way, the way those dark eyes are locked onto her is intense. She fidgets.

Sloane breaks the spell by glancing at the clock and saying, "It's getting late. I'm heading to bed."

"Good night!" Hurley calls after her.

With the closeness they shared just moments before, the soft click of Sloane looking the door behind her is jarring.

That was... kind of weird. Hurley tries to puzzle out why, exactly, every interaction with Sloane is either as easy as breathing or breathtakingly intense. She gives up on it before too long and heads back to her desk. She can tell when she's procrastinating, after all.

* * *

Things calm down a bit after that. Hurley actually has time now to be a Mod on TRZ and catches up on as much fangirling as she can. It's sort of freeing, really, that Sloane knows now. She can finally wear her fanmade the Raven t-shirt around the house (Sloane's incredulous looks can easily be ignored).  
She also makes a _giant_ lasagna to make up for the lack of cooking recently. The two of them eat lasagna for breakfast, lunch and dinner for two days straight afterwards but it's so damn good neither of them complains.

"Hurley," Sloane says, after pretty much inhaling the contents of her plate, "you have _got_ to tell me the secret ingredient."

Hurley shakes her head. "It's a family recipe."

"Please. If you ever move out I'm going to go through withdrawal."

"Then bribe me into staying," Hurley says, a smug look on her face even as she cuts up the last few pieces.

"You're addicted to Hotpockets, which I'm buying for you," Sloane points out. "That's one hell of a bargaining chip."

Hurley waves that thought away with a dismissive hand. "I can buy my own."

"And yet you never do." Sloane raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Besides, you're pretty much broke, aren't you?"

"Ugh. Fine. But curse you for bringing my finances into this." She leans in and whispers: "You want to know what the secret ingredient is?"

"Why are we whispering?" Sloane whispers back. 

"It seems appropriate," Hurley replies. "The secret ingredients is... pistachios."

Sloane scrutinizes her for a second. "I have a nut allergy."

"You won't be wanting bofa these, then," Hurley shoots right back.

Sloane can't stop her startled laughter. "You're messing with me," she observes.

"You, too. Don't think I don't know what happens to all the cashews I buy. You thief."

"Guilty as charged," Sloane says, with a small private smile on her face.

Hurley has to jerk herself out of staring. "Anyway," she says, clearing her throat, "Dinner. We were having dinner. And we, uh, finished that. But then we were talking about dinner so, uh, let's... do the dishes?"

Sloane is watching her closely. She nods after a moment. When she looks over to the kitchen sink she grimaces. For someone who likes being relatively tidy, Sloane definitely doesn't enjoy the act of cleaning.

Hurley's about to volunteer when Sloane offers: "I'll dry if you clean?"

Surprised, Hurley blinks. "Oh. Yeah, that sounds alright."

They work together in - well, not harmony. But definitely fun chaos. The dishes are done by the end of it, anyway, so it probably doesn't really matter they started a splashing war halfway through.

Hurley's about to retreat into her room with a yawn when Sloane puts her hand on her shoulder to stop her. "If your mom calls this week," Sloane says, "say Hi from me."

"Sure?" Hurley says, confused. Sloane just smiles at her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooo sorry for disappearing for literally months ahhh!!  
> Thank you for all the kind comments, you're literally why I continued writing this. I hope this next chapter lives up to your expectations!

Actually being _friends_ with Sloane, Hurley discovers, comes at the cost of losing the ideal roommate. Sloane no longer stresses about the dishes, which is a sweet sweet relief, but she’s also starting to leave her things lying around everywhere. Hurley had no idea how much stuff Sloane owned since she’d been keeping literally everything confined to her room before but jeez. Her new morning routine is picking through scattered newspapers and Sloane’s weirder possessions – who the heck actually owns a functional nunchuk? - to get to the coffee machine, which remains blissfully unchanged.

Sloane’s getting more forgetful, too: she keeps accidentally leaving the door to her bedroom tantalizingly open. Hurley dutifully closes it each time and moves on with her day.

Hurley can deal, though. She doesn’t mind Sloane embracing her inner sloth when she seems… more at ease like this.

Which is weird. Hurley hadn’t even realised her roommate had been keeping her at a distance until she walks in on Sloane watching Kitchen Nightmares in a velvet Slanket and it isn’t even weird. That’s how roommates are, right? Basically married, but without the heterosexuality of it all. And more platonic.  
Platonic. … Right.

The important thing is, Sloane finally seems comfortable in their shared apartment. Which is great! And Hurley’s happy for her.  
Even if it turns out that Sloane, entirely uncensored, is kind of an asshole.

Hurley turns to glare at her roommate as another goddamn peanut hits the back of her head. It doesn’t even hurt but it’s incredibly annoying. Sloane looks back with a look of complete innocence that quickly turns into snickering when the next peanut she flicks at her gets stuck up Hurley’s left nostril.

The sound she makes is not _that_ funny, okay? Sloane’s a jerk for losing it like that.

… Okay, it is kinda funny. (Or maybe Sloane’s laughter is just really infectious.)

When Hurley looks up from laughing at herself, Sloane’s beaming at her. 

“I knew that’d cheer you up,” she says, looking smug.

“I’m not buying it,” Hurley says, trying to sound entirely unimpressed while the corner of her mouth is still turned upwards, “you’re not actually a criminal mastermind planning six hundred steps ahead. We both know that was a lucky shot.”

Sloane raises an unimpressed eyebrow, so Hurley continues: “Besides, I was doing homework, you jerk.”

“You’ve been zoning out,” Sloane corrects. “Do you even know how long you’ve been sitting there?”

“Well, it’s been like… what, maybe twenty minutes?” Hurley guesses, but she gets out her phone and checks the time anyway. “Oh shit.”  
She’s running seriously late for her afternoon classes. She scrambles to get her things together and pulls on a jacket, ignoring the satisfied look on her friend’s face right up until Sloane calls out: “You’re welcome!”

“Find less irritating ways to get me to stop daydreaming,” Hurley calls back as she shoves her bare feet into shoes and grabs her keys, “or I’m replacing your laundry soup with gatorade.”

The door falls shut behind her, not quite loud enough to drown out Sloane’s “It’s called _detergent,_ you animal.”

* * *

 

She arrives to class just barely on time and super keyed up, thanks to being late to a lecture by a professor with a reputation for being a hardass and the near death experience via nutritious projectile. That ends up sucking majorly, since today’s classes turn out to be particularly theoretical and dull. The adrenaline crash plus being bored out of her mind means Hurley’s practically asleep by the end of it, but she forces herself on her feet and makes her way into the city.

She’s seriously considering taking the subway instead of walking home so she can sleep for the two minutes the trip will take when her phone chimes and she perks up. It’s the special notification sound she has set up for big announcements from her fellow mods at TRZ. (So sue her, it's a bird call.)

RAVEN HEIST HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, it reads in bright red, SHE HIT THE BOOKSTORE ON MARX STREET.

Hurley frowns, thoughts whirling through her heads. They're mostly questions. Why a bookstore? And in the middle of the day? Wait, isn't that the bookstore just a block away from h-

It happens very quickly.  
Just as she’s looking up from her phone, Hurley spots a masked figure rounding the corner. It’s the Raven, her black outfit looking super cool but extremely impractical in broad daylight, and she’s running. Running _towards her._  
Before Hurley can do more than gape, a second person dashes into the street, wearing the familiar dark blue of a police officer’s uniform. He shouts when he spots the Raven and sprints towards her.

For a second, things look like they’re gonna be okay. The Raven’s fast, and she clearly knows Goldcliff like the back of her hand, so she should have no trouble outrunning a single cop.

Except just as she passes Hurley, almost within touching distance, she hesitates for some reason. And she stumbles and falls. There’s a choked off cry of pain and the cop is gaining on her rapidly and _Hurley has to do something_ -

She’s grabbed the Raven’s arm before she can really think about it, hoisting her up and slipping one slender arm securely over Hurley’s shoulders. She ignores the police officer's shouts and drags her hero away into an alley, moving quickly and with purpose. The Raven’s surprisingly compliant, although she does keep one hand on the mask concealing her face, securing it.

“In here,” Hurley huffs after a series of confusing turns and shortcuts, and she shoves the Raven into the tiny, unremarkable flower shop and quickly follows.  
They wait for what feels like an eternity, trying to breathe as quietly as they can, until they hear the sound of boots hitting the pavement fast, going right by the entrance of the shop and continuing down the road.

Hurley breathes a sigh of relief and lets her muscles relax. For the first time, she looks around their hide out. Merle’s Flower Emporium is dimly lit and deserted, as it has been every time Hurley stopped by to visit. The owner himself seems to be up in the apartment above the shop, probably taking a nap. There’s absolutely no one here, and they managed to lose their tail; they’re safe.

“I can't believe I did that,” Hurley says out loud. “I-” She cuts herself off when the Raven lets out a pained hiss. “Are you alright?”

The masked vigilante nods silently, then pauses to actually think about it and shrugs. “I think my ankle’s hurt,” she replies, quietly. “Fuck.”

“Let me take a look at it,” Hurley demands, one hand already moving to the Raven’s leg before she realizes further information is probably required. “I’m a paramedic,” she explains, then adds: “I mean. It’s a work in progress. But I’m pretty sure I can help.”

There’s a pause. Hurley tries her best to look earnest, eyes on where the Raven’s should be - but the mask is designed so she can't even catch a glimpse, a hint of color - until finally she breathes an annoyed sigh and nods, jerkily.

The Raven lowers herself onto the floor and starts to take her leather boot off, revealing a pretty average left foot. Her skin is several shades paler than Hurley’s own, but dark enough it’s hard to tell if she’s bruised. There seems to be some swelling, though.

Hurley kneels down to get a closer look, fingers quickly and deftly feeling along. “Tell me if anywhere hurts, or feels tender,” she instructs, in doctor-mode already even though she’s internally freaking out about _skin on skin contact with the Raven_.

To her confusion, the thief starts humming the bars to Silent Night.

“Did you hit your head when you fell, too?” Hurley asks suspiciously.

The Raven waves her off with a huff. “I was referencing a meme,” she says.

Hurley stares.

“I can’t believe you just said the word meme,” she says, aghast. “You’re supposed to be cool and mysterious, not-”

“Hip and relatable?”

“Oh my god, are you _sixty?_ You are, aren’t you?”

“No comment.”

“I can’t believe this,” Hurley repeats to herself, focusing back on the injury. There’s some minor bruising at the back, close to the achilles' tendon, and when she gently probes it the Raven winces. “I think it’s just a grade one sprain,” Hurley concludes.  
Considering she can’t even see her face, the Raven does unimpressed pretty well, so Hurley continues: “That means it’s pretty minor. I don't think you’ll even need medical attention, and the swelling should go down quickly too. I’d recommend icing it, and wearing an ankle brace if you need one.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then the Raven explains: “I just grimaced.”

“And how was I supposed to be able to tell?”

“That’s why I clarified.”

“Riiight. Dork.”

Before the awkwardness can last too long, the Raven quietly asks: “Why did you help me?”

“Probably because I left my impulse control at home,” Hurley admits sheepishly. _It's probably watching kitchen nightmares right about now_. “And… well, I think what you're doing is important. Not to mention pretty darn cool. I’m… kind of a fan.”

Oh great, and now she’s blushing. She can't even meet the Raven’s concealed eyes. This is the worst-

Something smooth and cool touches her forehead. When she looks up, she realizes it’s one black, gloved finger, carefully brushing a curl out of Hurley’s face. The gesture is affectionate and intimate and Hurley has no idea what’s happening but her heart is beating very quickly. What...?

The Raven lowers her hand and leans back, nonchalant. “Why did you pick this place as our hideout?” she says, casual, like there wasn't just a break in the conversation.

“Um,” Hurley starts, still a little flustered, “well. This place is never busy and it’s so small and sheltered that it’s easy to miss. Plus, Barry - the cop chasing you - has a pretty severe pollen allergy, so I knew if we couldn't lose him we’d be safe here.”

The Raven tilts her head, body language radiating confusion.

“We were in the police academy together,” Hurley explains. “An allergy like that is hard to forget. I mean, I remember one pretty traumatic Valentine’s Day in particular.”

“ _You_ were in the Academy?” the Raven says, voice dripping with disbelief.

“It didn't work out,” Hurley replies with a self conscious shrug. “Reality came calling and I… had a pretty rude awakening.”

She seem to decide to switch track and points out: “You’re going to get into trouble for helping me.”

“Eh, I don't think so.”

The Raven glares with enough force that Hurley can actually  _feel_ it, so she forces herself to take this seriously.

“I don't think Barry recognized me, and there aren't any cameras in that part of town,” she points out. “So all the police know is that a college student in a hoodie helped you get away. Do you know how many of my classmates would do the same? … It’s a lot. It’s almost like the entire generation of millennials is digging the Robin Hood thing you’ve got going on.”

“What if he did recognize you? You recognized him.”

“He was kind of distracted on his car chase without cars, I think I’m good. Plus, if he recognized me, I super won't get in trouble. That man owes me three, so I know he won't tattle. And anyway, they won't be too mad about not catching you, right? They’ve got to be used to it by now.”

“I wish,” the Raven says, carefully feeling her injury and wincing. “Those assholes never seem to give up.”

“You could probably make it harder for them,” Hurley interjects. “By, and this is just a suggestion, not robbing a place in the middle of the day.”

“I had to.” She sounds resigned. “The boss only works one afternoon a week, and today seemed like a good shot. Before I broke my ankle, that is.”

“It’s not broken,” Hurley rolls her eyes, “trust me, you’d know. Why couldn't you just wait until the store was closed?”

“If I did that, who ever closed shop would get in trouble for not setting the alarm properly. Really, like I couldn't get in either way. And if I robbed the place while anyone but the boss was working, they’d take it out on the employees for not being careful enough.”

“So you were protecting the employees,” Hurley says, awed. “While directly targeting management.” She’s glad there’s no one here to see her right now, because there are _definitely_ stars in her eyes. (She’s particularly glad Sloane isn't here, because her roommate would **never** let her live it down).

“In a way,” the Raven says with a shrug, but Hurley can hear her smiling. She wonders what that looks like… “I like showing rich people just how incompetent they are, and the only way to do that is to make sure they can't blame the whole thing on someone else.”

“That’s so cool,” Hurley says. “But… why a bookstore?”

“It wasn't just any bookstore,” the Raven explains. “There’s a reason that one’s so close to campus.”

When Hurley very obviously doesn't catch on, the Raven adds: “The owner of the store and one of your professors went to an Ivy Leagues college together. The professor I’m talking about has also published several academic texts, all of which are required reading for his many courses. The price is ridiculous, even for college textbooks, because they’re supposedly all _limited editions_. Which is bullshit; the bookstore guy is purposefully withholding supply while the school makes sure the demand stays up. That way, they can pretty much charge whatever they want for what’s ultimately a series of mediocre texts. Your professor’s kind of a shitty writer.”

“I don't take his classes,” Hurley says, a little distracted. “Wait, so you-?”

“Stole half a mill worth of textbooks? Yep.”

Hurley gapes at her. Then she starts laughing. “What… what are you even going to do with those three books you stole?”

“It’s not _that bad_ ,” the Raven replies, but she huffs out a breath of laughter. (It’s weirdly familiar.) “I’m going to… redistribute some of the books, then sell the rest. Should be pretty simple.”

“I don't think eBay lets you sell stolen property,” Hurley points out.

“They do let you sell mysteriously appearing books if they were never reported as stolen in the first place. Schrödinger's books, you could call them.”

"I’m confused.”

“Professor Jenkins is on the school board. The owner of the bookstore regularly has coffee with the mayor. It’s not in either of their interests to report the theft and have to explain why there’s a secret backroom.”

“The mayor’s daughter goes to my college,” Hurley says, realization dawning. “I think she even takes Professor Jenkins’ classes.”

“Got it in one.”

“That’s brilliant. You might not be such a dork after all.”

“Am I being upgraded to nerd?”

“You wish.”

* * *

 

Hurley’s gets home shortly after, now in possession of a Goldcliff City keychain - “I had to steal _something_ from the main shop,” the Raven had explained - and still in disbelief about the whole encounter.

“I met the Raven,” Hurley says, out loud. Sloane’s not home to make fun of the awe in her voice, so she’s not too worried. “I actually talked to her. I called her a _dork_.” She groans. “Why, Hurley, why?”

Too restless to go back to studying, Hurley lets herself drop onto the couch and gets out her phone.

Twitter’s a mess of reported sightings, and The Raven Zone is blown up with people wondering what’s going on.

TexMexTwin writes:

**> a Bookstore?**

**> what did she steal, nerdiness?**

**You can’t steal that,**  someone else with the username TheD argues,  **it’s an abstract concept.**

**> your FACE is an abstract concept!**

**good one, Lulu,** username TFromTV replies.

There’s more serious posts, too, but everyone’s wondering what she was after. Hurley’s fingers itch to type out a response, a real gotcha moment, because what the Raven did today was really cool and nobody knows about it. No one except Hurley, that is.

With a sigh, she closes her browser app and pulls a face. There’s a lot going on inside her now, things she can't verbalize, so she might as well waste time productively. Putting her phone to the side for a second, she gets up and goes hunting for her DS. There’s a village she’s been neglecting.

* * *

 

_You're pretty useful, the Raven had mumbled when Hurley was done explaining how to best take care of her ankle. Hurley hadn't answered. Her heart was pounding too hard. At the same time the tone of voice sent a shiver down her spine. She felt… electric. Like she was sitting next to a storm contained in a person. The Raven-_

“I’m home!” Sloane calls out, tearing Hurley from her daydream-memory hybrid. There’s the sound of keys clinking against each other softly and a door falling shut.

Hurley rubs a hand across her face tiredly. Today’s been a day of adrenaline crashes. She’s pretty much ready to go back to the comfortable domesticity she has going on with Sloane, she thinks. Maybe order take out.

“Welcome home,” she says with a yawn when she hears Sloane enter the shared living room. She looks up from playing mindless games on her phone and… and stares.

Sloane’s wearing an ankle brace on her right foot, but her stance is steady and the expression on her face cautious and defiant.

It only takes a second for things to click. Hurley drops her phone and jumps up, coming towards her roommate quickly.

“I knew it!” she says, gleeful. “I _totally_ called it.”

Sloane tenses a little, but doesn't stop Hurley from hugging her fiercely. She seems almost confused, as Hurley continues: “You’re her fan too, aren't you? Don't worry, I won't tell. But the whole idea is so cool, don't you think?”

“Uh,” Sloane says, and she must be tired because she seems particularly slow today, “it sure is.”

Hurley leans back a little, arms still wrapped around her roommate, and says, “I’m in no position to say this but, honestly, you could have told me!”

“That I’m the Raven’s… fan?” Sloane hazards. Then she smirks. “I’ll leave being a dork to you, thanks.” Ah. _Classic Sloane._

Hurley lets go and crosses her arms with a scowl. “You’re wearing a fake brace, aren't you?” She says, almost accusatory, and points down at her own artfully bandaged foot.

“I am,” Sloane concedes, slowly. “But, uh. I don't need to be a fan to want to help the Raven keep her secret identity when she gets injured.”

Hurley raises her eyebrows skeptically. “Are you trying to say you’re just doing this because you’re a good person?”

“That’s exactly right,” Sloane says loftily.

“Uhuh. Where did you get the brace?”

“... A grouchy botanist lent me one. Now help me find our takeout menu, I’m starving.”

“We’re clearly soulmates,” Hurley declares. “We both like the same Superhero, and I was just thinking about ordering takeout.”

“That could be it. Or maybe you're just predictable.”

“Hey!”

* * *

 

Hurley’s lying in bed later, stomach full and feeling warm. She’s pretty sleepy and has an 8 AM class, but she keeps going over the day’s events in her head. There had been a sudden shift to the dramatic, but it had eased off once Sloane got home and they had dinner together.

Sloane…

Sloane is kind of a jerk, really. She’s forever making fun of her, cracking short joke after short joke and smirking in that completely irritating and not at all hot way she has.

But she’s probably Hurley’s best friend at this point. And it’s easy, being around her, joking together. Back when Hurley answered that craigslist ad, she would never have seen this coming. All of this.

How comfortable you can be around another person as long as you both pretend there isn't that tightening in your chest every time Sloane genuinely laughs, or brushes her dark hair behind her ears. How nice it can be to have someone watch trash TV with you whose commentary is as entertaining as the actual show. Maybe more so. But Hurley’s not willing to admit, not even to herself, that Sloane might actually be kind of hilarious. In a dry, asshole-ish kind of way.

In the end… she’s kind of glad she let Sloane into her room that time. It feels like that’s where things shifted into being more than just two people living together.

God, she's so gay.

 _Think about something else_ , Hurley tells herself firmly as she pulls her covers over her head. _If you can't sleep, at least stop thinking about Sloane. Or what happened with the Raven._

Enough gayness for one night.

Dinner was nice, Hurley forcefully reminds herself. They got Chinese from her favorite place, even though they couldn't find the flyer. She had finally admitted she’s got the phone number memorized anyway, along with every item on the menu, and Sloane had almost looked impressed as she said: “You’re pretty useful to have around, aren't you?”  
It had only sounded mildly condescending which, for Sloane? Is pretty good.

… Goddammit. Hurley rolls over with a huff, then punches her pillow into something a little more comfortable and grumbles into it.

She offers a quick prayer to whoever might be listening to just let her fall asleep, dammit, but it’s not working. Instead, her brain keeps replaying what Sloane said.

_You’re pretty useful to have around, aren't you? You’re pretty useful. You’re…_

Hurley sits up in her bed with a start. Her eyes are wide open as she whispers: “Holy _shit_.”

 

 


End file.
